The Better Man
by Flora Grey
Summary: Raoul is able to give his wife everything - except for the one thing she wants most. Will a desperate situation cause his old rival to reenter their lives, changing it in ways they could never have imagined? Of course, or it wouldn't be much of a PotO story. Passion, drama, betrayal, angst, True Love, revenge, & messy relationships! Fun for everyone...except the characters.
1. Prologue

_**The Better Man**_

_A Prologue_

It took approximately nine months for the scandal to fade away. From the most gilded aristocrat to the humblest shopkeeper, everyone knew that there was only one reason for a man of _his_ station to marry a girl of _hers_, particularly with it being such a rush job. In the all the finest salons in Paris, each mention of the young couple was inevitably accompanied by nods and winks. A particular source of amusement was the affair of the "Opera Ghost" - clearly a smokescreen to conceal the young vicomte's illicit trysts with the falsely virtuous chorus girl. Some felt the vicomte's insistence that her disappearances were connected to the unfortunate tragedies involving an old and unsound chandelier was bordering on poor taste, while more than one "expert" declared that they would not be surprised if the young man was "touched in the head", perhaps a result of that gift that was so often bestowed upon men by such women. As confirmation, all paranormal activity at the Opera had of course ceased after the budding soprano simultaneously announced her early retirement and impending nuptials.

Over billiards and cigars, the men all agreed that it was most unfortunate for the young man that his indiscretion should catch up with him, but it was by no means unusual. The factories and poor-houses were full of girls with bulging bellies who had paid the price for allowing themselves to believe that anything could come of loving a man above their rank. It was practically _de rigueur _for members of the upper classes to take a chorus girl or ballerina as a mistress, but it ended there, child or no. Everyone was at a loss as to how the girl, pretty though she was, had managed to convince a vicomte to marry her.

The question was answered when the blessed day finally arrived. The groom, misty-eyed and nearly swooning, could not have appeared more like a love-sick puppy. "Ah," they whispered. "She's charmed him with all the craft and skill of an actress." The bride was radiant, and the guests diverted themselves during the interminable ceremony by scrutinizing her glowing complexion and exchanging knowing glances across the aisles. When the last of the rice was thrown and the newlyweds were sent on their way, guests turned to one another, saying, "Well, wasn't that lovely. Have you ever seen so many flowers?" before adding in a too-loud whisper, "But can you believe she had the nerve to blush? Who does she think she's fooling?"

From that point on, surveillance of the young couple became necessary. Obviously the whole thing would be hushed up and hidden as much as possible, so servants were bribed to be on the look-out for any suspicious bundles being spirited away under cover of night. But the months dragged on without a single sign, and finally a dressmaker plied with brandy admitted that Madame had been skinny as a twig when she'd been measured for new dresses some six months after the wedding. Of course, as is common with this sort of thing, when all evidence began to point to public opinion being wrong, no one ever bothered admitting it. Gradually, the raised eyebrows lowered and tongues ceased to wag...about this particular couple, anyway. The sooner a new target was found, the sooner everyone could pretend they'd never been wrong. Thankfully, the French nobility is nothing if not filled with victims ripe for slander, and in short order, the whole affair was forgotten.


	2. Chapter 1: The Last de Chagny

_Chapter 1 - The Last de Chagny_

Pale yellow light filtered in through a set of gauzy lace curtains, casting filigreed patterns of light and dark across the crisp linen tablecloth and gold-rimmed china. Beside a gleaming silver-plated coffee pot, pink-blushing roses and fragile peonies cascaded from a porcelain vase. An artfully arranged tray of pastries stood at the ready, overflowing with more than any two people could reasonably eat. The Vicomte de Chagny nodded to the waiting server, who tipped a stream of rich, dark liquid into a little china cup. With the fortifying first scalding mouthful down his throat, the Vicomte was ready to receive the customary stack of letters awaiting his perusal. One by one the seals were broken, and delicately embossed cards were slid from thick cream envelopes. An invitation to join a hunting party in the countryside, an invitation to a card game in the city, a thank you for a lovely dinner party, each written in the same impeccably formal manner.

The last five years had seen a steady flow of such correspondence. At first the couple had been invited to endless functions mostly, Raoul was certain, for curiosity's sake, but as interest in their private life faded, curiosity was replaced with simple adoration for his lovely wife. While well-meaning ladies still sometimes remarked, "Why, she's simply charming! One would almost never guess that she had been a chorus girl!" the truth was that Christine's unusual past was quickly forgotten in favor of her new reputation as a captivating conversationalist and irreproachable hostess. Social duties were dispatched with effortless poise and grace. Even Raoul's disapproving mother was forced to grudgingly admit that she acted the part of a perfect lady quite expertly.

As gratifying as it was to have been accepted into good society's inner circles, the couple was happiest with only each other as company. As a compromise, they split their time between a townhouse in one of Paris' most fashionable districts and a small chateau nestled in the verdant countryside. In Paris, they dined, attended the opera, and danced at balls; all with proper, polite smiles plastered on their faces. Out of the city, with no neighbors for miles, they let their masks slip, and became once more the two children who had run barefoot in the sand along the ocean's edge, scooping up seashells and stuffing them in their pockets. Spring afternoons saw the couple strolling hand-in-hand through the sprawling gardens, plucking over-ripe berries from thorny bushes and popping them into each other's mouths. Late nights were spent in front of a slow-burning fire, clinging to one another and whispering stories half-remembered from childhood. The next morning, they lingered in bed and spoke of the sometimes amusing, sometimes frightening things they had dreamed during the night.

They almost never spoke of _him_.

After _that night_, it had been months before Christine could speak of any of it without choking on tears, unable to continue. Raoul never could fully understand the depth of her sorrow, nor did he think he wished to. While he had often entreated her to open up to him and speak honestly of her feelings concerning her mentor-turned-captor, he was secretly relieved when she would insist that there really wasn't much to tell. He tried not to dwell on the fact that she always refused to meet his eyes when she said this. Eventually, it appeared that she had cried the last of her tears over the fate of the masked man, and there was an implicit agreement that the subject should be avoided. Raoul devoted himself to making her as happy as he possibly could, and was rewarded with a renewed light in her eyes and blush upon her cheek, which had been respectively too dull and too pale for far too long.

With their dark past behind them, over three years passed in an idyll of happiness and affection...before things began to change...

The harsh scraping of a chair against the tiled floor jolted Raoul back into the present. He snatched at a napkin to blot up the coffee he'd sloshed onto the letter he held, and at which he'd been staring absently for some time.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. Did I startle you?" Christine asked. A vision bathed in golden morning light, she wore a simple morning dress and a placid smile.

Raoul jumped up to help her into her seat. "Maybe just a little. I'm afraid I let my mind wander a bit too far as I was reading Madame Fournier's thank you note."

Christine laughed, a cascade of tinkling crystal notes. "Well, I'd hardly fault you for that." She reached for a croissant as Raoul filled her coffee cup. "Anything interesting in the mail today, darling?"

Raoul rifled through the stack of envelopes. "Oh, the usual. I received an invitation to join a hunting party, but I rather think I should decline. Frankly, I find the whole practice fairly barbaric. Oh! And here's an invitation to a dinner from the Baron de Montfort." He paused, glancing up at Christine. She was spreading butter onto her croissant intently.

"Oh? When?" she replied without looking up.

"The first Saturday after we return to the city. It looks like it's a small party. Just us and a few other guests." Again he paused.

"Well, won't that be lovely then." She took a measured bite of her croissant and then set about rearranging her silverware.

Raoul stared at her small, pale hands. They trembled ever so slightly. Dropping his voice to just above a whisper, he looked at her levelly and said, "Sweetheart, we don't have to go if you don't want to. Just say the word and I'll make our excuses."

Still not meeting his gaze, a small crease appeared between her brows. "Of course we should go. We've owed them a visit since...for ages now, and if we turn them down it will seem unbearably rude."

He caught her hands in his. They seemed so fragile. "Are you sure it won't be too hard on you?"

She snatched them back and reached for her coffee cup. "Raoul," she said with an exasperated sigh, "I really don't know what you mean. Now, will you please just write and let them know that we'll be there and let the matter drop?"

The morning light was beginning to turn harsh as the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky. A white-gold beam fell over Christine's face, bleaching out what little color she had. For a moment Raoul was reminded of Michelangelo's statue of Rachel at the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome. They'd spent a week in that city as part of a month-long honeymoon tour through Italy. While Raoul had seen his fill of old Italian stone statues long ago, Christine had lingered over the figure of the unhappy woman whose eyes were turned heavenward, hands clasped in supplication. Now it seemed another statue sat before him, with downcast eyes and perfect features, smooth as marble...except for the faint puffiness around her eyes, the result of another unhappy night.

Raoul refilled his cup and smiled across the table at his wife. "Yes, my love. Whatever you want."

...

The dreaded evening came all too soon. At precisely seven-thirty in the evening, the de Chagny carriage rumbled to a stop before the wide stone steps of a seven story townhouse in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Pleasantries were exchanged, formalities concluded, and by eight o'clock they and the other guests had sat down for dinner. It was a rather unremarkable affair. Everyone was charmed with Christine, as usual. She laughed at the baron's tired old jokes, feigned delight over each course, and was quick with a pleasant response to every prying question. Only Raoul noticed the way she clenched her soup spoon so tightly her knuckles went white.

Later that evening, the men joined the ladies in the salon, the smoky-sweet smell of imported cigars still clinging to their clothes. Raoul found an empty seat near his wife. He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze, and she responded with a tight-lipped smile. He turned his attention to the baroness, who was presiding over the gathering like a great squawking hen, complete with beady little eyes and a massive chest threatening to spill out of her too-tight gown. A headpiece of bobbing feathers completed the effect.

"Well, my dear, I was just telling the ladies what a doll, what an _absolute_ doll our little Augustin is," the baroness said to her husband once everyone had settled. "Wouldn't you say so, dear? Wouldn't you say he's simply a_ perfect_ doll?"

From somewhere within his voluminous whiskers, the baron responded with a series of gruff but amiable-sounding grunts that must have been assent.

"In fact, my dear, I was just thinking that if it's not too late, if it's not _too _terribly late, that we should have the nanny bring down the children. Don't you think so dear, don't you think that would be lovely?"

Again the baron's grunts were repeated, and a servant was rung for. In short order a plain girl of about nineteen arrived trailing four small children, with another bundled up in her arms. The girl arranged them in a line, tallest to shortest, and, as they were introduced, prompted each to performed a practiced little bow or curtsey to the general delight of the crowd.

The baroness was in ecstasies. "And this," she said, taking the youngest child - a plump, pink-cheeked baby boy almost drowning in lace - into her arms and presenting him to the ladies and gentlemen, "is our little Tintin. You see? A doll, an _absolute_ doll!"

Raoul nodded his agreement even though he wasn't actually looking at the child; he was observing Christine out of the corner of his eye. A too-bright smile was plastered on her face. Her hands were buried in the folds of her gown. She must have sensed him staring, for she flashed shining eyes over at him in a warning glance before turning them back to the baroness, who had brought the child before her. Christine did an admirable job of cooing over the child - who did nothing but drool in return - as the baroness bounced him in her arms. "Isn't he just the dearest thing you've ever seen?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Christine responded, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

"Children are such a such a blessing," said the baroness. "I feel so absolutely _blessed_ to have such perfect little darlings. They bring me so much joy, I simply don't know _what_ I'd do without them." She lowered her voice. "Of course, dear, we're all hoping you'll find that out soon enough for yourself," she added with a sly glance at Christine, who promptly went pink.

"Oh, yes," said Christine, her voice only slightly unsteady, "we're hoping, too." Then, with the too-bright smile back in place, she deftly maneuvered the conversation back onto the endless charms of the pudgy, drooling infant.

Riding home in their carriage, Raoul held Christine as she wept onto his shoulder.

…

The next morning Raoul found himself outside another townhouse, only a few blocks away from the one he'd dined at last night. Its stone facade was almost identical; his dread was almost as acute. He never did like his obligatory weekly visits to his parents.

Tugging off his gloves, he followed an ancient servant into the salon where his mother sat stiff-backed in her richly upholstered Louis XVIII chair. She allowed him to kiss each cool, papery-soft cheek before waving him towards a nearby chair with a withered hand weighed down by huge glittering gems on golden rings.

"Back from the country I take it?" the Comtesse de Chagny asked.

"Yes, Mother. Just this week," Raoul replied.

She cast an appraising glance at him. "You spend too much time out of doors. Your color is rather too high." She ignored Raoul's grimace. "And where's your wife? Couldn't be bothered to join us today?"

Raoul ground his teeth. "She wanted to come, but I asked her to stay home. We attended a dinner party last night and were out rather late. I thought it best that she stay in and rest today."

"Hm. Too much wine, I suppose," said the Comtesse quietly, but not so quietly that Raoul didn't hear.

Heat was rising up the back of his neck. A slew of angry words were bubbling in his throat, but he would not let her win. He would have to content himself a sigh and a shake of his head.

A self-satisfied smile was playing about his mother's lips. "Well then, shall we have our tea? We won't wait for your father, he's out on business and knowing him it will soon turn to pleasure and then he won't find his way home until dinner is getting cold on the table." She called for a servant who spread a small table for them, and twenty minutes later Raoul found himself staring at the tiny bits of leaves swirling in the dregs of his tea as he stirred it listlessly with his spoon. He'd had little to contribute to his mother's harsh critiques of the government, the poor, and now, the neighbors. He could only hope his little nods of approval and the occasional interjections of "quite so" or "very true" would cover for the fact that he had hardly taken in a word she had said.

"Raoul."

"Oh, you're absolutely right."

"Raoul!"

The sharp tone brought him to full attention with a little jump. "Oh-! Yes, Mother?"

"Raoul, I asked you to stop that clatter you're making with your spoon. It's really quite rude to be making so much noise while someone is speaking."

Raoul dropped the spoon obediently, mumbling an apology.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" The Comtesse sighed and placed her teacup back on its saucer with a little clink. "Raoul, we really must speak about something quite important, and I'm going to ask that you give it your _full_ attention. Do you think you can manage? Good, then shut the door. This isn't for any of the servants to hear."

On boneless legs Raoul wobbled over to the door and pulled it shut, his head swimming with all the possible unpleasant topics of conversation he might find himself confronted with. He returned to his seat, discretely wiping his perspiring palms onto its velvet cushions.

Raoul felt pinned by his mother's cool, steel gray eyes. She appeared to be considering her words, for once. For once, he'd rather she just was out with it.

"Five years of marriage, and not a single child."

He changed his mind; he'd rather she'd kept it in. She continued on, regardless.

"You do realize, do you not, how important it is that you have an heir?"

"Of course I do." How could he not? It had been drilled into him since he could remember. As the last of the line, with no siblings and no living cousins, the de Chagny estate would end up in the hands of some undeserving distant relative, or so his parents had reminded him at every opportunity.

"Well then, Raoul, you understand my concern. Your father and I are growing old, and we would like to be assured that the de Chagny line will be continued before we die. Please, tell me that you are not doing anything to...prevent a child?"

"Mother!"

"Oh, don't be scandalized, this is a family matter. We must discuss it as two adults. Now answer the question."

"No...no. Of course not. It...just hasn't happened yet."

"Hm." The Countess considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. She stopped suddenly. "Has she been seen by the family doctor? Is it possible she picked up some disease on the streets that might-"

"_No._ No, it is _not_ possible." Under a practiced calm veneer, Raoul was positively seething. "Mother, she was an actress, not a whore."

"Oh?" The Comtesse arched a penciled brow and took a sip of tea through pursed lips. "Is there a difference?"

Raoul's gloves were in his hands and he was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "I think I've had quite enough for one day, Mother. I'm going." His voice sounded foreign to his ears, strange and tight.

"Oh Raoul, don't be so hot-headed." The Comtesse was refilling her tea with a steady hand, her eyes trained on the cup. "Sit down, I'm not through talking with you."

The door lay several paces away, and Raoul eyed it longingly. He could feel his lips trembling. Never in his life had he walked out on his mother, and as liberating as he felt it might feel at this moment, a nagging voice in his head told him that he might live to regret it. He wavered. She noticed. She softened her voice and repeated her request. She won. He sat.

She refilled his cup and pushed it towards him. He picked it up so he would have something to do with his hands.

"Raoul, you must understand. Your father and I have been very indulgent with you. We have tolerated your choice of a wife, where other families would have forbade it, would have disowned you if you dared to defy them. She may not have had a title or a respectable family or even a dowry, but she seemed to make you happy, and so while we have not approved of it, we allowed it. But...if she cannot give you a son... Well, Raoul, indulgence can only go so far. We must think about the needs of the family."

Raoul took a deep breath. "I know what you're implying, and I'm telling you now, child or no child, I will never, _never_ leave my wife."

With a little shrug, the Countess drained her cup. "Very well, but just know this: If you die without an heir, you will be letting down not only your father and myself, but also generations of de Chagnys stretching back hundreds of years. I only ask you to think of that." Her empty teacup rang out with finality as she dropped it upon the saucer. The interview was over.

Ten minutes later the same ancient servant held open the front door as Raoul made his way through the foyer, dozens of pairs of painted eyes belonging to family members long since dead following him as he went.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Well, I started this thing months and months ago, and here it finally is, mostly thanks to the ever-nagging (and I mean that in the best possible way) Nade-Naberrie. I owe her enormously. Thank you for your enthusiasm (feigned, though I suspect it was ;) ) over reading and rereading each awkwardly-worded line, for several nights of endlessly rehashing plot points, and for your general support and encouragement. Please go read her newest, Benediction._

_Look, this story is going to be a little...different. I hope that's a positive thing. There should be plenty here for both R/Cers and E/Cers, though I won't even hint at how it's going to end up. My goal for the story is for both camps to love it and hate it at the same time. There's going to be all kinds of good stuff: romance, betrayal, forgiveness, true love, revenge, Nadir (and who doesn't love Nadir?), messy relationships, and plenty of hurt feelings to spare. There's even going to be some s-e-x, though not in the typical romance novel fashion. (I'm still not sure how explicit it's going to be, so we're starting with a PG-13 for now.) Stick with me for a while, and see what you think. Thanks a million for reading!...and perhaps, reviewing?_


	3. Chapter 2: The Perfect Wife

_Chapter 2 - The Perfect Wife_

The slender golden hand had circled once, twice around the perimeter of the clock. As it made its third pass, Christine rummaged around in her beside table for a handkerchief to throw over its reproachful face. It was an improvement, but still each minute ticked inexorably away, only now slightly muffled. She rolled over and pulled the covers up under her chin, squeezing her eyes shut and willing sleep to come. Vaguely, she wondered what the servants must think of her, still in bed long past noon. She decided she didn't much care; she didn't see any point to being awake, not when sleep could so effectively dull the pain that was throbbing in her chest. Asleep, she could finally quiet her tormenting thoughts. In her dreams, she could relive happier days. If she could just get one more hour's sleep, she might be better able to face the rest of the day. But it's always the same – the more you attempt to force something, the more likely it is to elude you, and bleary-eyed and rumpled, Christine dragged herself from bed in defeat.

It was probably for the best, anyway. Raoul was sure to be back soon from his visit to his parents, and the last time he had caught her in bed so late, he'd fretted over her for two days. For his sake, she would try to pull herself together enough so that he wouldn't suspect any lingering melancholy. It was quite enough to deal with her own unhappiness without adding guilt from Raoul's distress over it.

Hiding her pain was beginning to become a full time occupation.

She slipped into the ivory silk dressing gown her maid had laid out for her. On a marble-topped dresser sat a silver tray of cold tea and pastries that Raoul must have ordered to be brought in while she was still asleep. As unappetizing as it was, it was more appealing than sitting by herself under the judging eyes of the servants, so she choked down a few tepid mouthfuls and picked apart a sweet roll, silently thanking Raoul for his thoughtfulness.

That unfailing thoughtfulness was one of the many things she cherished about her husband. Behind closed doors, other women would complain endlessly about their selfish, boorish husbands, while Christine smiled and nodded in what she hoped would be taken for sympathy. She'd learned early on that with gossiping women, the rule was that if you couldn't say anything bad, then it was best to say nothing at all, and the truth was, she really didn't have anything bad to say about Raoul. He was kind and considerate, loving and loyal. Sometimes she wished that she could find fault with him. Maybe then she wouldn't have this aching feeling that she'd failed him so terribly...

Last night was the closest she'd come to breaking down in public. For most of the five years that she'd been married, she'd endured endless hints that everyone was anxiously anticipating the arrival of a de Chagny heir. At first it was amusing. She and Raoul had been eager to start a family, and often entertained themselves by plotting out a future that involved a country house overflowing with sun-kissed, golden-haired children. As the first year became the second, the hints and winks became slightly irritating. After all, it was clearly no one's business but Raoul's and her own, and besides, plenty of couples took a year or more to have their first child. By the end of the third year, each mention cut like a well-honed knife.

Raoul had been understanding yet practical, as usual. Last spring, when the situation began to look dire, Raoul called in a visit for her from the family doctor, a white-haired and thickly-spectacled old man who had served the de Chagnys loyally - and most important, discreetly- for generations. After his uncomfortable and humiliating poking and prodding failed to turn up any obvious defect in her, he recommended plenty of rest, fresh air, and perhaps a visit to Vichy's mineral baths, none of which appeared to have any effect.

She'd returned from her trip to Vichy so full of hope, and the eventual disappointment had nearly crushed her. Raoul had done everything he could do soothe and reassure her. He swore that he would love her whether she could have children or not, and would never want anyone but her. She believed him, but somehow it didn't make her feel any better. He was always adamant that it would happen for them someday...but she she was starting to see the doubt she felt reflected his eyes. There was something that lay between them now. A broken promise, a crushed dream. An unspoken knowledge that if this wound were not closed, it would fester and rot, spilling its poison into their hearts and eating away at them until there was nothing left but bitterness.

Christine gave up on her cold tea with a sigh and sat down at her vanity. The face reflected in the mirror looked more like it belonged to an old, worn portrait than to a living thing, faded and indistinct. She pinched some color into her cheeks; it spread like twin pools of blood on a white linen sheet. One by one she opened crystal bottles and porcelain jars – dabbing the contents onto her wrists, dusting sheer powder smelling faintly of lilies over her forehead and down her nose. Each curl was twisted up and secured with a hairpin, not perfectly, but respectable enough. She tried on a smile. Again, not perfect, but it would do. She picked up an oversized powder puff for one last touch-up, and when her eyes met that of her reflection she felt a little ripple of electricity flow through her. If she didn't know better, she would swear she was back in her dressing room in the Paris Opera, powdering her face and rubbing rogue onto her lips and cheeks. Her eyes peered back at her as they did then, wide and uncertain, but missing was the jittery exhilaration sparkling from their depths. Missing also was the little half smile that would keep popping up no matter how hard she tried to suppress it. But her heart...her heart was thumping away in her chest just as it had after she'd swept off the stage, dizzy with triumphant joy, dazed by the wave after wave of applause still ringing in her ears.

She closed her eyes and let the forbidden memories trickle in. _There was the scent of roses – lush, thick, and heady, at once glorious and suffocating. A forest of glossy green blossoming with pink and white and yellow. And red... A single red rose, stripped of thorns and tied with black satin. Its creamy petals brushing against her cheek, her lips, soft as skin. The smooth, cool surface of the mirror under her fingertips. A breathless feeling, like all the air suddenly left the room, and the deep thrumming in her chest that she always felt just before..._

_The voice. Hard and cold and razor-sharp - a jagged shard of ice plunged into her belly. She listens with head bowed, skin prickling along her arms, teeth about to pierce her trembling lower lip, hands pressed together to quiet the tremors, almost as if they were in prayer. An angel's voice, terrible and beautiful. But now...melting into something rich and warm, filling the room, filling her, vibrating right through her bones. Her head tilts back, eyes sliding shut in ecstasy, breaths coming slow and shallow. And the voice, now a man's voice, unbearably soft and gentle, little more than a whisper, so close she can almost feel warm lips against her ear. Her own lips part-_

"Christine! Are you alright?" Raoul was hesitating in the doorway, one hand still on the handle.

"Oh! I...yes. Yes, I'm fine." Christine sat stunned as if he'd upturned a pitcher of ice water over her head.

"Are you sure?" asked Raoul, searching her face with uncertain eyes. "You looked...strange."

Christine stood and held out her arms to him, shaking her head with a small, reassuring smile. "Darling, really," she said, folding her arms around him and pressing her cheek against his warm, familiar chest, "nothing's the matter. I must have been daydreaming a little, that's all."

There was a pause. "Oh? What about."

Another pause. "I...really can't even remember! Nothing in particular, I suppose." She stood back and looked up into his uncertain eyes. "You know how silly women can be."

She pressed her lips into a smile that only wavered a little at the edges. His eyes softened and he responded with a smile and a sigh that sounded like relief.

Christine was quick with a change of topic. "How were your parents? They weren't angry I wasn't there, were they?"

Raoul's clear blue eyes went dark. "No, it was fine. My father was out, so it was only my mother anyway." He settled onto the edge of the vanity and began tugging at a little thread on his cuff. "It was a nice visit."

"Are you sure? You seem a little.."

A grimace distorted Raoul's face and his hands gripped the edge of the wooden table. "You know how she is, it was the same old ridiculous ranting. Consider yourself very fortunate that you weren't there." A half-hearted grin replaced the grimace, and he hopped off the vanity, brushed himself off, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Are you going to finish getting dressed? I was thinking we might take a walk down to the park before dinner."

"Oh yes, that sounds lovely."

"I'll leave you to it, then. I'm just going to fetch my overcoat." He turned to leave. "Ah yes! I almost forgot, you received a letter today." He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

She turned it over unenthusiastically, expecting to see the return address of one of the many so-called friends she cared nothing about. For once, she was pleasantly surprised. "It's from Meg!" she cried with delight.

"Is it?" called Raoul from the adjoining room. "How nice! I wonder how she's liking married life!"

She tore open the envelope and fished out the letter. She hadn't seen her friend since her wedding, six months ago. Despite Madame Giry's very vocal disapproval, Meg had given up the stage to marry a Swiss banker, a pleasant - if a bit dull - man more than a few years her senior who could keep her in reasonable comfort and, as Meg had said, off her poor, abused toes. Shortly after the wedding, Meg was whisked off to Switzerland, and while Madame Giry claimed to be mourning the loss of her dream of seeing Meg as a world famous prima ballerina, Christine knew that the old woman was too proud to admit that she simply missed her only child. She understood very well, she missed her friend terribly too. And so with hungry eyes she devoured the letter.

"She said she had a lovely honeymoon," Christine called out for Raoul's benefit. "And she's been busy setting up her new home... She complains about the cold...and the Swiss cooking." She flipped the letter over with a little laugh. "And she- Oh." Christine's eyes were frozen on one of the lines hovering just over the carefully embellished signature.

"And she...what?" asked Raoul as he strode back into the room, fastening the buttons on his jacket. He looked up and caught sight of her face. It must have looked as bloodless as it felt, because his face immediately creased with concern. "What's the matter? Is she all right? Is everything all right?"

"She...she..." Christine wanted to continue, but tears were already leaking from her eyes. One more word and there would be a flood. She shook her head and thrust the letter towards her husband. She watched as he scanned the sheet with a knitted brow. Suddenly it went slack and he looked up at her, stricken. He was on his knees before her in an instant.

"Oh, Christine... I'm so sorry," he said, grasping her hands in his. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No - Don't," she choked. "I can't talk about it. Give me the letter, I haven't finished it."

Again she stared at the words - "_And, darling, I've saved the most exciting news for last - I'm expecting a baby! Can you believe it? We're both just absolutely thrilled._" She couldn't finish. She tossed the paper from her and buried her face against Raoul's shoulder.

"I feel so terrible," she said between sobs. "I want to be happy for her, but I just...can't. Six months! I can't believe it! It seems so, so...unfair! For once I'm happy she's in Switzerland, I don't think I could bear to see her!" Gasping and sobbing, she let the burning tears soak into the shoulder of Raoul's coat, as the bitter anger crumbled into raw, broken-hearted pain. Eventually, she was able to draw a few ragged breaths to steady herself. "And now I feel like a horrible friend," she almost laughed, shaking her head.

Part of her wanted to drop back onto the bed and sleep off the words that were threatening to pour from her. But it was like a valve had been opened, and now there was no closing it.

Dashing the tears from her eyes, she struggled to meet Raoul's eyes, and failing, settled on a little speck of lint just below his collar. "This is getting so very hard for me, Raoul. I want so much to give you a child, and I've - I've failed you." She held up a hand to silence his inevitable protest. If she didn't get this out now, she feared she never would. "No, you know it's true. I've...failed you as a wife. And I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I feel like my heart is slowly breaking to pieces. It's like I can't imagine ever being truly happy again. I just feel so...empty." She bit her lip and then whispered, "Some days I wish I just wouldn't wake up... "

"Christine! Please don't talk like that!" Raoul nearly shouted with a horrified expression distorting his face. He held her to him again, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand. "Everything's going to be all right. We'll have a baby, it's just...taking us a little longer. Think of how much more you're going to love it when it comes."

"But, Raoul-"

"Shh... I mean it. It'll happen for us, soon. I promise."

Christine wanted to believe him, but in her heart, she knew that this was the one promise he might not be able to keep.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, I realize I forgot to mention something: I'm not really sure which version of PotO this is based on. I guess it's not based on any one, exactly. I know I've said in the past that prefer Leroux or Kay's Eriks, and that I definitely think that type of deformity is the only way to go, but...I changed my mind? As far as this story goes, it really needs a half-faced deformity, for what will become obvious reasons as we go on, and while a Kay Erik could work for this, personality-wise, Leroux is definitely out. (Though that's not to say some aspects of his personality won't still show up.) So for those who can't stand movie-verse, don't worry - this isn't definitely isn't an Erik the Stud story by any means, though again, touches have and will continue to show up. Maybe I didn't need to clarify all this, but I do want to explain what I'm going for here, and why I put it under the "Book" universe for lack of a better idea. Feel free to picture any sort of universe that makes you happy. And if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about in the first place, then just carry on._

_Thank you to all of you who have been reading, and a special thank you to those who left reviews! This story really makes me second- and third-guess myself every time I post, so I appreciate knowing that it's being enjoyed. :)_


	4. Chapter 3: A Hopeless Case

_Chapter 3 - A Hopeless Case_

Raoul snapped his pocket watch shut and shot up from the creaking leather chair for the third time since he was ushered in to the cramped little first floor office and instructed to sit and wait. Again he made a circuit of the small space in front of the desk. Five paces to the bookshelf, five more to the tiny fogged window, ten back to the desk. A large and well-worn book sat upon one corner, the words _Reproductive Organs of the Sexually Mature Female: An Illustrated Anatomical Guide _leering at him in faded gold block print. For a gentlemen to even step foot in an establishment such as this, with its wax models of things no human eye should ever see and books with titles even more lewd than the one in front of him, well, it was unseemly to the point of absurdity. The wall full of diplomas and commendations from prestigious English universities was the only thing keeping him from fleeing the whole sordid place. A line of discreet inquiry had led him here with promises that there was no one better to help get to the bottom of the matter, but now Raoul was beginning to wonder if the man was nothing but a perverse quack. A perverse quack who couldn't even bother to be on time.

The door opened with a bang.

"Ah, Monsieur...hmm, I'm afraid I don't have a name for you here," said a graying, sloping-shouldered man, glancing at a sheaf of papers as he bustled into the room. "My apologies for making you wait."

"None needed," Raoul fibbed, standing. "And no name, if you please. Monsieur will do just fine."

"I see." The doctor peered at Raoul over the rim of his spectacles for a moment, then dropped the papers onto the desk and shuffled them into a messy pile. He gestured to the creaky leather chair. "Please, sit. I, as you may have rightfully assumed, am Dr. Simmons. And you, you are here because you are desperate."

"Well, that's quite a way to put it."

"Perhaps. But I'm correct, no?"

Raoul unclenched his jaw. "Yes...you are correct."

"And I'm very sorry that I am, but I am also pleased to tell you that you've come to the right man. Let's sort things out, hm? How long has it been?"

"Five years."

The doctor hunched over a fresh sheet of paper and began scratching away. "And what steps have you taken so far in search of a diagnosis?"

"My wife has seen the family physician, and he found nothing obviously the matter. He prescribed rest and mineral baths."

A sharp bark of a laugh burst forth from Simmons. "Of course he did. And as for yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"The doctor found nothing amiss with you?" Looking up from his paper for the first time, Simmons cocked an eyebrow at Raoul's quizzical expression. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been examined?"

"Examined? Of course not! Why should I be? I have no... I mean to say, we have no problems when it comes to conjugal..." The room was suddenly much too hot.

"Ah, you mean to say that you are able to maintain an erection and ejaculate upon completion," the doctor deadpanned.

Raoul bolted up from his seat. "WHAT? How can you even- How could you-" he spluttered, speech and shock wrestling for control. "To speak to me in such vulgar way! I've never-"

The doctor chuckled. "Oh, come on, chap! If you want to make a baby you're going to have to stop with the euphemisms and speak the language. I can't imagine you'd let a little medical terminology get to you. My word, you're worse than the English royal family, that stodgy old bunch!"

Grudgingly, Raoul returned to his chair, grumbling not-quite-under his breath.

Simmons wet the tip of his pen with his tongue before returning it to hover over the paper, still chuckling to himself. "So?"

"Yes...what you said. And we have been having frequent quick, vigorous...ah, intercourse, just as the doctor suggested."

The doctor sat back in his chair and laughed from deep in his belly. "Ah, that's right. Because ability and fertility are one in the same, or so you have been led to believe." He leaned back onto his desk, adjusting his spectacles, suddenly all business. "This may come as a shock to you, but it's simply not true. A man may be able to perform, but it doesn't necessarily mean he can father a child."

Without a word, Raoul stood and retrieved his hat and overcoat from their hooks, and turned to face the doctor, his hat clenched between rigid fingers. He spoke through clenched teeth. "You know, I can see I've been wasting both your time and my own. It's one thing to be vulgar and more than just a little presumptuous, but entirely another to be spouting outright lies. I was expecting quackery, and it appears I was not mistaken . Good day, sir."

With a broad roll of his eyes, Simmons batted away Raoul's little speech like a circling gnat, then placed both broad hands flat on his desk. "Oh, come now...sit back down." He sighed. "Yes, I know that my ideas may seem incredible, but so are my results. I'm easily a decade ahead of my colleagues, so the fact my theories and practices seem radical is completely true; you will not be able to get the answers that I can provide anywhere else. You want anonymity. That leads me to believe that you're of nobility." A slight twitch of Raoul's eye provided confirmation. The doctor nodded. "I would take it farther and suppose that you are here because you need a child – a son – to secure your line. Now, you're welcome to walk out that door and take your chances with another doctor. But I can promise you that you can look all over Paris, London, even the entire United States of America, and you will never find another doctor who can help you as I can. If you leave, there will be more patients, and I will be none the worse off. But you...you will be just as you were when you came in: desperate." Finished, he folded his hands and waited.

Raoul remained silent for a solid minute, attempting to stare down the presumptuous doctor. He couldn't walk away, not with so much at stake, not with so much to potentially regret. He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in a long, defeated sigh. "You're right." Raoul resumed his position in front of the desk like a chastised pupil. "What needs to be done?"

"First off, we'll move to the next room and do a thorough exam. Afterward, I'll have you provide me with a sample of your ejaculate so that I can examine it for-" The doctor was cut off by the sound of Raoul choking and sputtering.

"And how do you expect to get that?" he asked between coughs, an eyebrow raised in defiant disbelief.

Simmons smirked at him, his eyes glittering with delight. "Oh, my dear fellow. I'm sure you'll be able to figure that one out. And here," he added, gesturing to the book on the corner of his desk. "A little something to give you inspiration, should you need it."

**…**

Three strong bourbons did the trick. The fire spread from his belly into his chest, spurring his heart to keep on beating and lifting his shoulders into a posture resembling confidence. It didn't do much for his gait, however, which wavered and wobbled as he tip-toed into the bedroom and froze in front of the bed. A full moon hung outside the window, silhouetting the graceful birch trees as they were swept back and forth by a gentle night's breeze. Watery moonbeams and tendrils of shadow rippled across the walls. Matched with his helpless swaying, the effect struck him as being very much like being under the sea.

"Raoul?" his wife's voice called out in a mixture equal parts concerned, confused, and amused. "Are you all right? You were...laughing."

"Oh, was I? I'm so sorry, darling, did I disturb you?" Christine pushed herself up to lean back against the polished walnutheadboard, the white linen sheets pooling around her waist.

"I was waiting up for you, but I must have fallen asleep. Where have you been? You said you'd be back in time for dinner." A slight crease had appeared between her brows.

With a sigh, Raoul dropped onto the edge of the bed. "I know, I'm sorry. I ran into François Jacquier, and he insisted that I stay for drinks and billiards. I should have sent word. Do you forgive me?"

A smile twitched at the edge of her mouth. "It's nothing. I hope you had a nice time."

His eyes now accustomed to the low light, Raoul took notice of his wife's slightly swollen eyes and the unmistakable, too-familiar impression that she was carrying a heavy load upon her shoulders. His eyes drifted across to the nightstand, where a pen and ink sat in the midst of a nest of crumpled papers.

His heart felt very hollow. "And you?" he asked, not looking at her.

"It was fine. I finally started working on a letter back to Meg, but..." She bit her lip and fell silent.

For several minutes, not a word passed between them as they sat listening to the rhythmic sweeping of the birch branches against the window pane.

Raoul gripped sweaty handfuls of the bedclothes. He feared that if he let go, there would be nothing to stop him from bolting from the room. He steeled himself. Like a pulling a thorn from your foot, it would be best if this news were delivered straight away; at least, that was the mantra he'd repeated to himself sometime during the second drink.

"Christine, I..." His mouth opened and closed like a fish until he could feel the burning acid from his stomach begin to rise up his throat. He flung himself forward, doubling over, begging the contents of his stomach to stay put.

"Raoul, are you sure you're all right?" Christine scurried across the bed to him, then paused, frowning. "I can smell the alcohol on you. You must have had far too much to drink."

He knew he was being a coward, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was going to take the out he'd been offered. He raised his head just enough to glance at her. "You know, darling, I think you're right. I think I'd better go get a club soda to settle my stomach. I'll stay in one of the other bedrooms tonight; I don't want to disturb you."

"You're sure?" Her eyes were skeptical.

"Quite. Don't worry, love." She settled back in bed, brow still furrowed. Raoul planted a tight kiss upon her forehead and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Don't ever worry. I love you so very much." She raised an incredulous eyebrow. After a beat too long, he managed a chuckle he hoped didn't sound as artificial as it felt. "Don't mind me. Drinking makes me silly. Good night." And with that he backed out of the room with an apologetic half-smile and a blown kiss.

**…**

With the glowing orange tongues of flame from the library's fireplace lapping at his back, Raoul gripped the neck of a cut-crystal decanter and sloshed its contents into a short glass. He thumbed an amber droplet off of his shirt-front as he downed the burning sweet liquid in one long swallow.

_'Well, Monsieur. There is one bit of good news I can give you: we needn't investigate any further.' The doctor's jaw was set, but his restless hands never stopped moving: gathering papers, straightening pens and cufflinks. _

_'I don't understand.'_

_Simmons averted his eyes for a fleeting moment. 'My friend, the microscope has shown me that you are, quite unfortunately, sterile.'_

_Raoul blinked blinding white spots from his eyes. 'What?'_

_'There were absolutely no live sperm in the sample I examined. No live sperm, no baby,' the doctor said, jerking his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. 'It's not a wholly uncommon phenomenon, regrettably, but there you have it. I haven't seen your wife, so I couldn't say conclusively, but it seems the problem lies on your end.'_

_Raoul felt his head shaking back and forth. 'No, I'm sorry, but this is simply ludicrous! I don't believe it. Look again!'_

_The doctor's spine stiffened. 'My dear sir, I could check a hundred times, and the results would still be the same. There are many explanations for this. A fever you had as a child, perhaps? An infection? You don't appear to be suffering from Syphilis-'_

_'How dare you! To imply that-' Raoul was on his feet._

_'Pardon me,' said the doctor, raising a conciliatory hand, 'but you'd be in the small minority of Parisians who've avoided it. No disrespect intended. In any case, try not to let this diagnosis threaten your masculinity. It has nothing to do with it'_

_Raoul swatted the words away. 'I don't care about that. Just tell me how to fix it.'_

_'Fix it?' The doctor sounded genuinely perplexed._

Raoul's mouth was burning, but it didn't hurt enough. He refilled his glass and drained it before the decanter even hit the tray. He held the empty glass up before the dying fire, watching the flames writhe within as if they were trapped inside the crystal.

_'Money is no object,' said Raoul, already reaching for his billfold, 'so if there's some medicine, or operation, or-'_

_'Monsieur. Let me be quite clear.' The doctor looked grave, but Raoul would have sworn that there was just a hint of amusement behind his eyes. 'There is no "fix". It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'_

The cup twitched in his hands, daring him to smash it against the smoldering logs, reigniting the flames in a shower of crystal shards, but in the end Raoul simply deflated, defeated, and refilled the glass once more.

* * *

><p>AN: Surprise! I'm back! Two and a half years seems a reasonable amount of time between updates, right? No? Really? Yeah, you're probably right. From here on out, I promise to try to cut down to a year, two years tops. Kidding. I can't say how often it will be, because my life became so ridiculously, absurdly, insanely busy, but I will make every effort to keep writing at a pace that will allow me to finish this story before I am shipped off to an assisted living home, where my decrepit, arthritic fingers force me to dictate to a reasonably priced community college student, who will later, over cheap beer, read excerpts to boys she's trying to impress, laughing at what a big dork I still am. No, I can't let that happen. Luckily, I have Nade-Naberrie, the very best editor/whip-cracker a fanfic writer could have. She's a big reason why this story will continue, so my thanks to her are endless. For everyone else, thanks for reading!

PS - Reviews are the best!


	5. Chapter 4: Say You Need Me

_Chapter 4 – Say You Need Me_

Honestly, he really had intended to tell her first thing that next day. But she smiled so sweetly at him when he sat down to join her for breakfast that he began to reconsider, concluding that doing it later in the afternoon would be better. And then when she suggested a stroll around the park after lunch, he thought it best that he should wait until the next day, rather than ruin a pleasant outing. The next day there was an unexpected guest, the following a dinner party, and then Sunday she seemed so at peace after the church service...

A full two weeks later, Raoul was still carrying around his secret like a pocketful of jagged stones. Maybe it was his imagination, but it actually seemed she'd been happier lately, smiling more easily, and not even once bringing up their situation. He fantasized that she'd somehow learned the truth, accepting it, but not revealing to him that she knew in an effort to let him save face. At times – the best times – he almost managed to convince himself of it.

Then, one night, as the reds and oranges of the late evening summer sky finally faded to black, instead of accompanying him to the library after dinner, Christine quietly excused herself without explanation and disappeared into the bedroom. Raoul's gaze lingered on the tray of spirits on the sideboard, but unwilling to take the chance that she might catch a whiff of the acrid burn of liquor on his breath, he gritted his teeth and followed.

He found his wife face down upon the bed – never a good sign. She didn't lift her head as he sat next to her and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand upon the small of her back. They sat in weighty silence for many minutes, her swallowed sobs occasionally swelling beneath his hand. At last, she pushed herself up and swiped damp curls away from her face.

"I'm _sorry_," she said, the word thick and raw in her throat.

Raoul could only stare back, dumbly.

She cast down her eyes. "I truly thought this time was different. It _felt_ different. I felt so sure that this was it." She scrunched handfuls of sea green silk skirt in her lap, twisting and kneading. "I allowed myself to _believe_, to be happy..."

The standard words of comfort that usually flowed so swiftly from him now dried up in his throat. The silence stretched on too long.

"Oh, God!" She sprung to her feet, whirling to face him with an expression of dawning horror. "You must hate me!" She looked like a newly-caged bird, both frantic and defeated. "Oh, God..._oh, God_... I'm so sorry..."

He tried out his paralyzed mouth, but it only fell open, useless.

She blinked hard, as if she'd been slapped. Like a sleepwalker, she made her way over to the small stool in front over her gilded vanity, and sat with the practiced posture of a girl who'd spent many of her formative years training in ballet. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and sucked in a shuddering breath. "Please, Raoul... Please promise me you'll be honest with me," she said, each word measured and even, as if she were reciting from a script. "If you want a different wife – a wife who can give you children – I understand. I do. I couldn't bear you secretly resenting me. Hating me." Her face began to crumple, wetness shining on her lashes. "Just tell me, please just prom-"

"It's not your fault," he blurted out.

Her mouth snapped shut. She sat stock still, eying him as if he'd thoroughly lost his mind.

Raoul took a deep breath. "I- I saw a doctor. An expert in the field." The words fired from him like bullets. "He examined me. It's me. Not you. I can't father children."

This wasn't coming out at all like how he'd rehearsed in his head.

"What?" Her expression hadn't changed.

"I'm...infertile, sterile...whatever..." Raoul's shoulders went limp, his arms dangling lifeless at his sides.

Her eyes went blank, unreadable.

"I didn't mean to keep it from you," he said not entirely sure it was the truth. "I just...wanted to wait for the right time."

"How long have you known?"

"A few days," he lied.

Christine looked him straight in the eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. "And this doctor, he's sure?" The barest hint of hope behind her words hit him like a kick to the gut. He swallowed hard and grimaced.

"Yes. Very." He answered her next question before it could form on her lips. "And...unfortunately...he says there's nothing that can be done."

"Oh."

Her face was smooth, composed, if a little colorless. Something was behind her eyes, though – something he didn't recognize and couldn't put a name to. And though he knew the right thing was to ask her how she was feeling and then fall, weeping, into her arms and beg forgiveness, her crippling, inscrutable gaze sealed his lips and nailed his feet to the floor. Standing in front of her, he felt exposed and raw, like a mollusk that had crawled out of its shell. He could feel his toes squirming in his shoes.

"So, ah, now that we know... Well, I- I thought maybe we could talk some more about adopting...?"

Her eyes swung up to him, unfocused and unseeing. She blinked once, hard, and when she opened her eyes again, she was back. A smile softened her lips. "Yes, it's something to think about," she said.

Raoul felt his face break out in a stupid grin. He gathered her up in his arms and just held her, his heart feeling light as air.

He was brought down to earth by the feeling of two warm palms pressing against his chest. "Darling," she said, a note of apology already in her voice. "I think I'm getting a headache; you know how I get them when I cry."

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length, still savoring the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her dress. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, my love. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

Her gaze drifted to the floor. "I think if I could just lie down in the dark for a bit..."

He gave her hands a squeeze, and released them. "Of course. I'll be in the library if you need me."

"Raoul?" His hand froze, gripping the doorknob mid-turn. He looked back at his wife. Perched on the edge of the bed, her limbs hung from her like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her mouth stretched into a thin smile. "I'm glad we know."

**…**

Raoul sat down his book and readjusted his feet on the tufted leather ottoman. Only a sip or two remained in his glass; he swirled the amber liquid, inhaling the smokey-sweet scent of the cognac. He drained the glass, but the alcohol did nothing to quiet the words still ringing in his ears.

_'It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'_

_Raoul slammed his palms against the desk, launching himself out of his chair. 'Do I understand? No, no. I'm afraid I don't.' His voice was rising higher and higher. 'You assured me that you were the best in your field, but now you're telling me you can do nothing?' _

_The doctor measured out his words through clenched teeth. 'There's much I can do for many people, but that doesn't mean there aren't still hopeless cases.' He threw up a hand to deflect Raoul's interjection. 'I'm sorry to have to be the one to inform you that you are one such hopeless case, but perhaps you can take some comfort in the knowing? You and your wife can move on now. And, Monsieur, there are other roads to becoming parents. The orphanages are overflowing with children, beautiful children who-'_

_'Out of the question!'_

_'Fine. Then perhaps you'll learn to appreciate the joys of a life without children. Think of all the unencumbered travel and leisure time. I have no children, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Your wife may even be relieved that she won't have to deal with the hardships of pregnancy and childbirth..."_

Wait...Was it relief? Was that the unfamiliar look in her eyes, the one he hadn't been able to put a name to? It had to be...if for no reason other than that he didn't want to think too long on what else it might have been.

And really, she would have to be relieved that it wasn't her, wouldn't she? She'd been so sad for so long, but now she knew it wasn't her fault! She could stop blaming herself and move on. And come to think of it, was it possible that she really only wanted children for his sake? She knew how important having an heir- Oh, god. His parents. Since he'd first gotten the news, his head had room for nothing but worry for how Christine would react. He hadn't even considered having to tell his parents...his mother. No, no. That was something he could worry about later...if at all. No, he was going to enjoy this lovely sensation of weightless, for tonight, at least.

Buoyant, he tipped a little more cognac into his glass in celebration. His mind was buzzing with possibilities. The doctor was right about one thing: It was true, unencumbered, they could travel the world, maybe buy another home by the sea, in the town they first met as children. He made a mental note to bring up those points to Christine in the morning.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Raoul slept soundly.

**…**

It was the cold that he noticed first. The chilled air of the early morning hours, snaking its tendrils around his bare, bereft feet, sending them searching for the familiar warmth that...wasn't there – that was _always_ there. The cool sheets stinging him fully awake. A numbing void next to him. And there, at the edge of the bed, a silhouette assembled from gentle curves.

She was there, but she was gone.

**…**

Sunday nights had always been special for them.

Christine was already reclining against the overstuffed pillows when Raoul came to bed, glossy curls spilling across her bare shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded. A single lamp burned low, and her skin was incandescent in the semi-darkness. In their quest to create new life, they'd fallen into each others' arms again and again until it became a matter of course, yet the tips of Raoul's fingers still tingled with anticipation as he slipped into bed beside his wife, eying the creamy flesh above the ruffled neckline of her nightgown as it swelled with her deepening breaths. He let one finger glide down her exposed arm, buttery soft and rich with heat; it stiffened under his hand. Her barely parted lips drew him in, and he covered her mouth with his. Inflamed, he sucked and nipped at her unmoving lips. He drew back, gulping down the humid air, and descended upon her mouth again, his lips crushing against her jawline as she jerked her head to one side.

He searched her face in the half-light, following her unseeing gaze off into the distance. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I suppose I'm just not in the mood," she said, her voice indifferent.

"Oh." Raoul blinked. "Okay then." He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, covering his eyes.

Christine rolled over beside him. He could feel the weight of her eyes on him. Finally she spoke. "Are you upset with me? I mean, we still can, if you really want to."

Raoul's stomach contracted into a hard, queasy lump in his belly. "No, that's...no." He clamped his mouth shut to quiet his trembling lips. "Just, never mind. Don't worry about it."

He swung off the bed and shrugged into a heavy wine-colored brocade robe.

"Where are you going?" Christine asked, scooting up in bed, and assessing him with those blank eyes which had replaced those he'd known. "Are you angry?"

"I'm fine, really." He pasted on a too-wide, tight-lipped smile. "I just want to have a quick brandy to help me sleep. I'll be right back."

He fled the room and didn't stop until the glass was in his hand.

Almost six years of marriage, and never had his wife turned from him like that. He wasn't sure if he was perhaps making too much of the incident, but all the same, he'd let her have the bed to herself, just for tonight.

**…**

It took five nights for him to stop hoping she'd ask him to stop sleeping in a guest room and come to bed.

**…**

It was too quiet. Raoul tried to focus on the book in his hands, but the words rang hollow in his head. There was nothing but _his_ shallow breaths, _his_ thudding heartbeat. Where the rustle of her skirt should be, there was only the rustle of the turning pages. Raoul shifted in his chair. _Inseparable._ How many times had he heard that word tossed around in regards to Christine and himself? Each time he would smile and squeeze her hand, knowing that no one could truly understand the bond they shared. There had been a time where he thought that he might lose her forever, and he had been prepared to do whatever it might take to keep her with him. After that, he knew that only death could tear them apart. And yet...

Raoul flung his book onto the table and jammed his hands into his pockets. It was no use trying to put on this act, going through the motions of his day-to-day life, ignoring the ever-growing gulf between them. He was unraveling. His wife, on the other hand seemed more composed than she had been in years. He hadn't seen so much as a single tear from her since the night of his confession, but her real, true smiles were also nearly as rare. Those had been replaced by the hard-edged, over-bright imitations that she had only ever used with others. Never had they been for him. But now, it was like watching her on stage. And though her performance could be convincing, it didn't change the fact that he had been relegated, once more, to the audience.

The most maddening part, however, was that the distance – both physical and otherwise – would occasionally be breached, without warning and without any notion as to how it could be reproduced. She would suddenly appear at his side after hours of isolation, picking up a book or her embroidery and carrying on as if she'd been there all afternoon. Or unexpectedly wrap her arms around him from behind as he fastened his cuffs, flooding his body with a warmth that turned to numbing cold when moments later she would release him and pad silently from the room. It was like walking on shifting sands, never knowing how the next step would land, never knowing if he would ever feel solid ground again.

Raoul ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long sigh. He heaved himself out of his seat and crept over to peer around the door frame. Across the hall, he could see into the day room, luminous with the late afternoon sun flooding through its massive windows. Christine sat in silhouette at a little desk, her face darkened but still lovely, the little curve of her nose upturned above slightly pursed lips. A pen moved in her hand, making a series of careful, deliberate swoops and slashes on a piece of stationary. Raoul bit the inside of his cheek, daring himself to cross the hall and beg her to tell him that she still loved him – that she would always love him. At her desk, Christine finished a line, nibbling on her pen as she considered it. A hint of a real, true smile curved her lips. Heat pricked at Raoul's lids. He glanced at her once more through watery eyes, and then shut the door with a quiet click.

**…**

When the sauce on the fish began to congeal, Raoul decided it was time to have dinner taken away. A maid appeared, mercifully avoiding eye contact as she whisked away the dishes, including the untouched food on his plate. He drew a slim, silver-plated case from his pocket and fished out a cigarette. He rolled it between his fingers, re-accustoming them to the feel of it. He had given up smoking years ago for Christine, back when she sang; she claimed it was bad for her voice. He struck a match and let the flame sear the end of the cigarette. The first deep pull set his lungs on fire. He held in the scorching breath until he couldn't take it anymore, then released it in a long, slow hiss. In his head, images looped over and over – doors closing behind the swish of skirts, locks drawn that he hadn't even known existed, stacks of letters addressed in an unfamiliar hand - until he felt dizzy. He knew it was cowardly, but if he could do it over again, he never would have told Christine about his doctor visit. Even better, he wouldn't have gone at all. A month ago, he would have said that he would do anything to ease her guilt, including taking it upon himself, but in no scenario did he ever imagine this torment. He stubbed out the spent cigarette and lit another.

An hour later, as Raoul swirled the dregs of his second drink round his glass, a whoosh of street-sounds echoed from downstairs as the front door finally opened. He swept the small pile of crumpled cigarette butts out of sight, and straightened his spine. There was no point trying to smooth down the hair which he knew looked like as disheveled as his thoughts.

Christine appeared in the doorway, clutching her little beaded bag in both hands. Her eyes flicked from the empty table, to the glass clutched in his hands, to his clenched-jaw smile.

"Darling," he said, suppressing the quaver that was attempting to distort his voice. "You've missed dinner."

Christine widened her eyes in what looked to him like an actress portraying surprise. "Oh, I did, didn't I! I'm so sorry – I hope you ate without me."

"I did," he lied. As if he could force anything into a stomach clenched tight as a fist. Raoul sat back in his chair, a faux-casual armed draped across the back. He cleared his throat to make way for an indifferent tone. "You were out late. What were you up to?"

He wasn't certain if it was just a trick of the candle light, but it looked as if a blush was working itself over his wife's face, creeping across her rounded cheekbones and leaving her lips looking bloodless by comparison. "Oh, I stopped in for a visit with Madame Giry," she said, perhaps a touch too fast. "Just for coffee, but then she invited me for lunch, and next thing I knew they were lighting the lamps." Her lips pressed into an apologetic smile. As he scrutinized her face, her eyebrows shot up suddenly. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She snapped open her bag and fished out a small, sealed envelope. "She asked me to give this to you. I have no idea what it's about."

Raoul turned the envelope over in his hands. On the back was his name, written in Madame Giry's unmistakable block print. He unclenched his jaw and sighed out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you," he said, tucking the letter into an inner coat pocket as she watched him with curious eyes. "I'm glad you had a nice time." He smiled broadly at her, feeling suddenly light. "Can I have them fetch something for you to eat?"

She blew out a little breath and shook her head. "No, no thank you. We ate lunch quite late. I'd actually just love to go lie down. It's been such a long day," she said, taking a little step back toward the hallway.

Though Raoul could feel his lips begin to form his customary "Of course", his buoyant spirit urged him on, and he bit down on the words, stilling them on his tongue. "Actually," he said, smoothing a small wrinkle from one lapel, "I was hoping to talk to you for a minute."

Christine wavered for a moment on her short heels, her bag clenched in one hand, the door-frame in the other, before joining him at the table.

"I'd been thinking," Raoul began, just as he'd rehearsed. "We haven't really spoken about our future."

"Our future?"

"Well, I mean, we talked a bit about adoption, and I thought maybe we could, you know, revisit that." Her blank expression made his tongue feel thick in his mouth, and his words came stumbling out. "The- um, the orphanages are overflowing with uh, beautiful children, and..."

"Raoul." Christine laid one warm, gloved hand over his. Her lower lip was pinned between her teeth, the corners curving despite her effort to suppress them. She drew in a deep breath. "I know how much we both want children, but this is not the way for us. It's not that I couldn't love that child – you know I would – but you know how hard it's been for your parents to accept me; imagine that burden falling upon a poor child. It's awful enough for a child to be without their natural parents, but then to spend the rest of his life living in the shadow of the heir that never was? I couldn't do that. I don't want to. And I don't think you truly want to, either."

Raoul searched his wife's face. Her clear gaze was unflinching, her mouth set in a firm line. He slumped back in his chair.

"So that's it for us?" he asked, trying not to sound dejected. "We just give up and move on?"

"We move on, yes. And I suppose we'll just have to find a new way to create meaning in our lives." It seemed as if she would go on – he could almost see the words on the tip of her tongue – but instead she clamped her lips shut and arranged them into a gentle smile.

Raoul nodded, but he knew he didn't need to find anything: the only thing that had any real meaning in his life was Christine.

She looked like a queen, sitting stiff-backed on the glossy lacquered chair, her hands folded upon her lap, distant and untouchable. There was nothing on earth he wouldn't give to bring back the wide-eyed girl who had once dashed across a rooftop to fling herself into his arms, clinging to him as they whirled around, lost in the heat and sweetness of each others' lips. Absolutely nothing.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you so much to all of you readers! It was such wonderful thing to see some familiar names from people who had started reading years ago. It means so much to know that you're still hanging in there. Each and every review brought me so much joy - extra big thanks to those who left one. Looking back to them always helps when I feel like I'm just slogging through. And, as always, big thanks to Nade-Naberrie, my editor and co-conspirator, who I practically sent each sentence as they were written, one-by-one. You're invaluable. _

_Since this took so much longer to get up than I'd planned, I rushed headlong into publishing. Any errors you find may be gone soon, after I've had a good night's sleep and a few cups of coffee. _

_About the story...I know we're seeing a lot of Raoul, and I hate to tell ya, but you're going to see even more of him in the next chapter. However, you'll also be seeing some You-Know-Who (hint: not Voldemort), so don't give up just yet! _


End file.
